


voice

by orphan_account



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: (i have no idea how to tag things), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Muteness, Polyamory, Pre-Poly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 16:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12369285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Race had never heard his roommate's voice. And that was okay.





	voice

Race had never heard his roommate's voice.

It wasn't to say they weren't friends — far from it. They'd known each other since freshman year, when they ended up in the same biology lab together and he'd made the decision to stick up for the rust-haired boy with a whiteboard and dry-erase markers in his bag. The teacher hadn't taken kindly to the other boy not speaking, and had been threatening to remove him from the class if he didn't use his voice 'like a normal person'— and, well, that had just rubbed Race _all_ the wrong ways. So he'd given the (garbage) professor a piece of his mind, Italian profanities included, before grabbing the other guy and dragging him over to the table Race was sharing with Spot and a guy with an eyepatch who'd introduced himself as 'Blink' (and politely ignoring the almost-visible tears in his new friend's eyes). They'd switched to a different lab with a better teacher soon after (Spot and Blink could manage without them, and both Jack and Specs were in the new lab besides), and from then on they'd been essentially inseparable.

Over the years (considering that they were in grad school, that counted as a _pretty long time_ , even if they had managed to cram their undergrads into three years each instead of the usual four because Race hated waiting), he'd learned a lot of things about the boy who became his nearest and dearest friend. His name was Albert, the red hair was indeed natural (or, at least, Race hadn't ever _seen_ him re-dying it), and he was goddamn brilliant with computers. Programming, digital editing, graphic design, even the actual building and fixing of the machines themselves — you name it, Albert could do it. He learned that Albert loved paleontology (mostly for the dinosaurs, but other fossils were also 'pretty cool') and cycling, that he secretly whistled Billy Joel in the shower, that he could do the craziest fucking flips out of nowhere (and he never failed to flush redder than his freckles when he was complimented on them)— 

Well, in essence, Race knew Albert back and forth, and Albert him. Practically living together for the better part of five years tended to do that to a guy, after all. 

The only thing he didn't know was why Albert couldn't speak. He'd thought about asking more than a few times during the course of their friendship, but it had never felt appropriate, and Race knew all too well the damage that could be done by asking unwanted questions. If Albert wanted to tell him, he'd tell him — and if not, so be it. Race had learned sign language _years_ ago — dropped his easy language credit Italian and switched to the ASL courses less than a week after meeting Albert (because that whiteboard was clearly a pain in the ass, and he'd seen his new friend signing before so it seemed the only decent route to take) — so it wasn't as though communication was an issue. And when it came to being heard, Race was loud enough for both of them and then some (as many members of their extended friend circle had — repeatedly — complained).

Of course, there were other things he didn't really know (Albert's middle name, his first kiss, why he always seemed to have an extra jar of pickles in the fridge), but none of them really mattered — and like with the voice thing, if he needed to know, Albert would tell him. That's what being friends meant — they could trust each other to bring up issues when talking really did need to happen, because there was that mutual understanding that they'd be able to work things out together. 

It had been that talking, and that mutual understanding, that finally helped Race untie the knots in his gut and ask Spot out after a full three years, seven months, and twenty-two days of pining. It had been gnawing away at him for a long time, like some sort of weird festering frustration, as he grew more and more convinced that any moment now something would happen and make things either far _worse_ or far _better_. Albert had eventually reached the end of his patience (reasonable, considering that a lovesick Race had meant many nights of takeout and an excess of both ice cream pint containers and unnecessarily thick stacks of paper littering the main room) and barricaded the two of them in Race's bedroom with the condition that he would not let them out until they'd worked through what was bothering him and figured out a solution. One month and three dates later, Race and Spot were officially a couple, and life had once more settled back into some semblance of normalcy (or at least, as close as their extended friend group could ever get).

Race didn't particularly think there was anything weird about his friendship with Albert.

"Okay, but—" Finch mumbled around a mouthful of his prepackaged-lettuce-of-choice, fixing Race with a single arched eyebrow, "— you two are literally _always together_. Like, more'n you and Spot, and the two of you are fucking dating."

"Fucking _and_ dating, thank you very much." Race made a face at his friend's choice of food, more than pleased with his leftover lasagna in a tupperware container that had a large smiley face painted onto it (apparently, some of Albert's skills in digital design carried over to regular art media, as they'd discovered when he managed to steal some of Jack's paints — each tupperware container in their apartment now bore a unique emoji painted on both the lid and the side, to ensure they could be matched up easily). "And what's so weird about that? Albert's my best friend, and we do live together."

Making a face to convey that that was clearly not what he'd meant, Finch sighed and returned to his meal. They didn't have much time to eat, what with Finch having to return to his job and Race to his classes (and job, but that came later and mostly tomorrow), so the subject matter seemed to be dropped for the time being. Grad school being as busy as it was, Race often found he had very little time to spend with his friends who weren't Spot (seeing as they were dating, he saw Spot quite often, and they tried to go out properly at least once a month), Elmer (that was a little odd, but he was Spot's roommate, so there was a lot of incidental hanging-out that happened), or Albert (and that really went without saying), so he made sure to hang on to any opportunities he got. 

Everyone was growing up, after all. Now, to be fair, they'd all been adults for some years now (and wasn't that _weird_ , realizing that they were all past twenty and steadily approaching thirty when it seemed like just yesterday Race was fifteen and sleeping on Jack's bedroom floor with one in a long history of bruises decorating his jaw or eye or stomach), but it still seemed to hit with so much weight whenever he saw how far his friends had come.

Even though they'd all gotten their bachelors degrees around the same time (some of them had gotten them a bit early, others a bit late, but they were all well and undergraduated by now), not all of Race's friends had gone on to study for their Masters'. Jack and Crutchie had both gotten jobs working for Jack's mom, Medda (well, adopted mom, but it was really all one and the same), at the theatre she ran — Jack on the set crew (and working long nights to try to put together enough pieces for his very own art show later that year), and Crutchie as both a make-up designer and actor. Both, because despite his _outstanding_ talent and commitment to the medium, a great deal of the acting scene was too ableist to give roles to a man with elbow crutches and an amputated leg, and he had to make do with what he could find. It pissed Race off, but he knew that both of Crutchie's boyfriends had already yelled at directors and producers enough that his input was far from needed. (Davey was in grad school as well, though not anywhere near Race — English Lit and Education were, after all, very different from Race's multitude of sciences — and only ever really appeared on alternating weekends to kiss his boyfriends and lecture everyone he saw about eating properly and getting enough sleep, filling the role of the mother half of them had never had).

Spot was actually in the same program as Davey — though it wasn't exactly the same, since he was heading towards Early Childhood Psychology and Education (and weren't they just a fine pack of overachievers? Knowing the sorts of regular knuckleheads he was friends with, sometimes Race was downright _amazed_ that they'd managed to get as far as they had), it was closer than any of the rest of them — but he'd chosen to stay in his tiny apartment with Elmer, just a few blocks down from Race and Albert's, and instead braved a frustratingly long commute to campus every day. (Race admired that — the subway could be pretty weird, after all, so at least the experience usually came with interesting stories).

The four of them — Race, Spot, Albert, and Elmer — had fallen into a habit of regular group dinners at least once a week, hosted at each apartment in turn in a sort of odd cycle with the occasional eat-out thrown in. It was at one of these, oddly enough, that the topic had come up again.

"Y'know, Race, I'm not judging you or anything, but... what's up with you and Al?"

Race turned and _stared_.

Elmer stared back without pausing his methodical table-setting, head turned slightly so he could maintain eye-contact with Race, who was currently trying to make sure his spaghetti sauce didn't burn while cooking. His expression was superbly calm — Elmer was renowned to have one of the best poker faces in the group, beaten out only by Sniper and Race himself — but once more, one eyebrow added a wry tilt to the look.

After a few moments, Race turned back to his sauce with a shrug. "We're friends. I don't know why everyone keeps asking me that. You'd think no-one else we know has roommates, or something."

"Race, most of our friends who live together are dating." 

"What, like who?"

Elmer rolled his eyes, setting down his handful of meticulously polished silverware to count on his fingers. "Jack and Crutch and sometimes Davey," who only lived off-campus over the summer, but Race would let it slide, "Specs and Romeo, Sniper and Smalls—"

"Hold up, I thought _you_ were dating Smalls." 

"We're more queerplatonic. I'm aro-ace, remember?" Race hadn't remembered, but Elmer didn't seem too offended. "We had some negotiations a while back, so Smalls is kind of dating both of us? In a way? Which I guess means I'm sort of dating Sniper, too — well, we've never really discussed it, but they don't seem to mind whenever I spoon them, so—"

Race groaned loudly. "More than I need to know, pal. Right, so who else?"

"Well, Blink and Mush, obviously, and Kath and Sarah. Otherwise — Finch lives with Specs and Romeo, but he's trying to find his own place soon, and Tommy's been doing the whole living-out-of-a-van thing—"

"I forget, how far had he gotten, last letter?"

Elmer laughed. "Yellowstone, I'm pretty sure. He might have said something about tasting the water, so I really hope he got my text about how extremely-not-good that would be." Lips curling into a pout, he pointed a spoon at Race, who had switched his attention from the sauce to the pasta. "But you're dodging the point! We're all great friends around here, yeah, I know — I mean, everyone talks about their sex lives with each other, for crying out loud! _Nasty_ , by the way," He made a face, "On the list of things I didn't need to know, the exact noises you made in bed last night is probably almost at the top."

"Hey! That's on Spotty, not me!"

"You're nearly as bad!" Elmer finished the silverware, pausing to admire his handiwork before opening the cupboard to find glasses. "Point is, we're all good friends, but you and Al are — I dunno, Race, there's just something _different_ 'bout you two, you know what I mean?"

Race took a short moment to think about it with half of his mind, the other half focused on checking the taste of his sauce and deciding it needed just a bit more spice. "Not really."

A sort of exasperated groan escaped his companion, who slumped less than decorously into one of the chairs set around the modest table. "You learned a whole new language for Al within a _week_ of meeting him!"

"It was the right thing to do, and it wasn't like I was _missing out_ on learning Italian! I can speak Italian _in my sleep_!"

"You _do_ , Spot's told me. And he's your first emergency contact, even though he can't exactly answer a phone!"

"Don't you bring that up again, he still insists on personally buckling my helmet now!" 

Elmer rolled his eyes. "Yeah, as he _should_ after it fell off and you cracked your goddamn head open. I'm surprised that rock doesn't have any dents in it from your thick skull."

"Wow, _rude_." Race stuck his tongue out at his friend, absently turning off the timer when it beeped at him to remove the garlic loaf (which was really _far_ more complicated than just bread or garlic, but that's what Albert had called it and it stuck) and opening the oven door to check on it. "Do you see me calling you out on _your—_ "

"Racetrack Tonino Higgins, don't you _dare_ continue that sentence, or I will pour that sauce _all_ over your head—"

Race grinned, " _Well—_ "

"—and forbid Spot from licking it off." The door clicked open as Elmer finished speaking, and he huffed in irritation before standing and helping Spot bring in the three grocery bags he'd somehow carried up the stairs (thanks, no doubt, to his _deliciously_ strong biceps — nope, not time for that, Race keep your mind on that bread).

Since Race couldn't quite leave the stove yet, Spot leaned over the kitchenette's narrow counter to kiss him on the cheek. "What was that about me licking something off of you? Elmer been helping you come up with ideas?"

"Welcome home, Spotty. And no, unless you fancy spicy red sauce all over your bedsheets to join the rest of the stains." 

"Until you have to deal with the most stupidly irregular menstrual cycle in the world, you don't get to comment on my sheets." Despite the sting that might usually come with — well, anything Spot said, really — the tone was one of affection, and Race found himself chuckling softly as he reached out with one hand to brush a few wayward strands of hair out of his boyfriend's face. Spot leaned into the touch, grin just barely wide enough to show the (unfairly endearing) gap between his front teeth. "Albo's on his way — I sent him on a mission for dessert, so he'll be back in maybe twenty."

Race blinked and frowned. "Spotty, the food's almost ready. You couldn't have given him a lift?"

"There's something I want to talk to you about."

"And you needed him out of the room to do it?" This wasn't going anywhere Race had expected. Did Spot have an issue with Albert? They'd gotten along fine until now, or at least Race had _thought_ they did. After all, it had been _Spot_ who nicked some of Jack's nice paints for Albert to play with, and he'd started learning ASL with Race in sophomore year so he could keep up with their conversations. "Spotty, what happened? Did he do something? Did _you_ do something? What's—"

As the words continued to pour from Race's mouth, tumbling over each other in the clear beginning of some form of panic, Spot's eyes flickered wide and he stepped around the counter quickly to wrap his arms around his boyfriend's waist. "No, no, it's nothing like that. Elmer, I thought you said you'd bring it up before I got here?"

"Your boyfriend, Conlon, is _entirely_ too good at going on tangents." Elmer rolled his eyes from behind the fridge door, where he was putting away the last of the groceries. "And at avoiding the goddamn point. Either that, or he's even more oblivious than I thought."

Approximately none of this made any sense. "What point? What is going on, what are you guys _talking_ about?" The first panic was fading out, but he still found his heart beating a little too fast in this throat, a little tremble in his hands worse than the one he'd never quite lost following his bike accident. Neither of the others seemed concerned, so it couldn't be a terrible issue, but Race still had no idea what was going on and it was starting to really bother him. "And what does any of this have to do with _Albert_?" 

"Race, calm down." Spot seemed to force himself to speak slowly and evenly, breathing deeply as though steadying himself. "What I needed to talk about is— well, I think I might be a bit in love with Albo. And," he held up a hand to halt the panic that quickly started spreading across Race's face once more, "I think you are too. And I think we should do something about that."

"I— you _what?_ " Race blinked once, twice, not quite able to comprehend what was being said. He turned back to the food, moving things from the stove into waiting serving bowls and plates, setting out utensils, anything that made more sense than this. "What are you— Spot, I'm not _in love with Albert_!"

When he turned to set the food out on the table, Spot was staring back at him incredulously. "Tonino, last week you were waxing poetic to me about his hair — his _hair_ , Race. Hate to break it to you, but that's _pretty damn gay_ in my book."

"I—" _Fuck_ , Spot had remembered that? They'd been half-asleep — too tired for sex, just cuddling and watching Brooklyn 99 on Spot's phone through Race's earbuds so Elmer wouldn't complain — and Race had been signing to Spot about the bike ride he and Albert had gone on together the day before. It wasn't _his_ fault his roommate had very nice hair that looked very pretty in the sun! "That's just— Spotty, he's my best friend, I'm not allowed to compliment him?"

"Of course you are, I'm just saying that waxing poetic about _the sun turning his hair into gold and fire_ sounds like a little _more_ than platonic, you know?"

Even if Race wasn't in love with his friend, Spot had a point. That was pretty gay, and even being half-asleep at the time wasn't much of a defense. Race was more honest tired then he was awake. "Right, okay, _fine_. Assuming you're right, and I love Albert, and _you_ love him — what are you saying we should do?"

"Ask him to join us, duh." Spot reached for the garlic bread, grinning shamelessly when Race gently smacked the back of his hand and hissed a reminder about waiting until everyone was there. "Try a poly thing."

Seated beside Spot, Elmer popped a grape into his mouth (he must have snuck some out of the groceries, because Race certainly hadn't put grapes on the table but _there they were_ ) and winked cheekily. "A _ménage a trois_ , innit? That sounds real interesting, maybe I should ask Smalls and Snipes about that."

"I thought you were already dating both of them?"

"I though you were ace."

He rolled his eyes at both of them. "Doesn't mean I can't have fun if I want. And Smalls is the apex of our fancy triangle, not me — I like Sniper just fine, but we haven't actually discussed anything yet." His phone buzzed and he checked it nonchalantly. "Also, Al's on his way up, so if you're going to decide something you should hurry up."

"Fucking— _fuck_." Race groaned, pressing his palms against his eyes. "Fine, Spotty, I'll talk to him later. But not over dinner, alright?"

"Of course." And then Spot was by his side, one hand on Race's arm and the other twining into his curls as their lips pressed together. "It'll be okay, Tonino. It's okay. No matter what happens, I'm still yours and you're still mine, yeah?" 

"... yeah."

Spot stared deep into his eyes for a few moments, dark grey on pale blue-green, as though looking for some deeper recognition or reaction. But Race wasn't the gambling king of their group for nothing, and his poker face was a perfect mask of quiet calm as he steered Spot back to his seat before moving to the door to let Albert in.

Dinner continued mostly as normal after that. They exchanged stories from their weeks — Spot was still trying to get someone from the administration to talk to the creepy classmate who'd been bothering him (Race suggested punching him in the face), and Albert had just gotten an interview for an internship he'd been looking for — and cracked jokes about their friends. After dinner, they broke out dessert — Albert had brought a whole box of assorted goods from the fancy patisserie Mush had started interning at over the summer while saving up for culinary school — and clustered around Elmer's big flatscreen T.V. to watch the newest episode of Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (it was hard to assign roles, but from the first episode on they'd unanimously agreed that Albert was their Amanda, earning a scarlet flush and a rush of flustered hand-signs in response). But of course, it wouldn't be a true evening without summarily making fun of the characters and plot contrivances, and they did so heartily — Elmer snarked, Spot deadpanned, Race quipped, and Albert laughed soundlessly every time. 

And that was... something, huh. After having the thought of it shoved into his face and his head, Race found himself— _observing_ his roommate, so to speak. Without his conscious direction, his eyes would linger on Albert's hair (red-gold, falling into his eyes) or meander along his jawline (trying to count the countless freckles) or even focus _all-too-intently_ on his lips. And it was— not bad, actually. Or at least, it only reinforced something Race had long since known, which was that Albert was unfairly pretty. 

Well, he'd always known it, but somehow it felt like he hadn't actually realized it until this moment: squished onto the just-a-little-small couch with his boyfriend's arm around his waist and Albert's head resting on his shoulder, Elmer leaning against the couch beside his knee and cheering for the Rowdys with a hand in the air. He could feel Albert smiling, feel the shift and bunch of muscles through the fabric of his shirt, and—

He hated to admit it, but Spot might've been onto something. Because he was always acutely aware of the places where his boyfriend pressed against his side, a line of heat from his chest to his thigh, and (this, Race realized very suddenly with a shudder that he _sincerely_ hoped was subtle) he was equally as aware of Albert (shoulder to stomach to thigh, warm breath just barely brushing against his neck), and it wasn't anything new. It had always been like this, and he wasn't sure how he felt about what that must mean.

They'd talk in the evening.

 

* * *

 

The evening, in Race's fine opinion, had arrived _too goddamn fast_.

Spot had class in the early morning (grad school schedules were as merciless as the jobs they were intended to prepare their students for) and Elmer had work, so once the episode had ended he and Albert had been politely (oh, who was he kidding, there was nothing polite about the way their friend group spoke to each other) shooed out of the apartment with half of the leftovers and a very meaningful look directed at Race while his roommate was fussing over his bag. Followed by an appreciative nod towards Albert's arms, which — okay, firstly, Spot had _no room_ to speak there (his biceps were a goddamn _gay heart attack_ waiting to happen), and now Race wasn't going to be able to think about _anything else_ all the way home. Especially not when they were biking back, so there wasn't any conversation or music to distract him from the muscles bunching and tensing in Albert's arms and back (why, oh _why,_ did he always wear those loose tank tops), and _this really was not helping things._ At _all._

The ride home was pitifully short, and in what felt like a split second-and-a-half, Race was unlocking the door to their apartment and pushing it open. As always, he got three steps in before Albert flicked the lights on, and they unloaded their portion of leftovers and extra pastries into the fridge in silence. Normally, Race would fill the air with chatter about the day or the episode — after all, his friend was mute, not deaf — but now, with the conversation from before and the conversation yet to come still weighing heavily on his mind, the words failed to materialize.

Apparently, it was very noticeable, because as soon as everything was put away and tidied up (despite many individuals' expectations, Race was an impeccably tidy person — considering both his hobbies and his chosen career, it really shouldn't have been as surprising as it always seemed to be), Albert grabbed hold of Race's hand and pulled him into their shared bedroom. Swinging the door shut behind him, he settled himself onto the center of their shared bed (it was a one-bedroom apartment, and the ceiling was too low for a bunk-bed like they'd wanted — one king-sized bed had just made sense, financially speaking) and beckoned Race to join him. His hands signed rapidly, the movement as quick and sure as everything else he did. _"Race, what's the matter? Is something wrong?"_

Well, no point putting it off. "I need to talk to you about something."

Race signed as he spoke, more second-nature than anything, but Albert's eyes (golden-brown, like the perfect meeting between milk chocolate and smooth caramel) never strayed from his face. _"Yeah, what is it?"_

"I—" And how was he supposed to just come out and say it? It had been hard enough with Spot, who he'd pined after for _literal years_ , but this— this was his best friend. What if this all went wrong, and everything went wrong, and he fucked up everything and then Albert wouldn't speak to him and Spot wouldn't speak to him and he'd just be—

Careful hands, lightly calloused from all manner of sources, wrapped around his frantically twitching fingers and held them, one thumb making careful circles on the back of his hand until he managed to catch his breath and fight off the encroaching panic. Breath in one, two, three, four, five— breath out, one, two, three, four, five— repeat. Albert joined him, syncing their breaths together slow and steady until Race could find his voice again. _He could do this._ He could do it, and it was not going to go wrong, and even if Albert said ' _no'_ they would still be friends, Spot would still love him, things would be okay. Things were going to be okay. He could do this.

He took a deep breath in. "Spot and I wanted to ask you to join us." Albert's thumb stilled on his hands, and Race tried his best not to let his heart leap into his throat in fear, forcing himself to continue speaking instead. "In the relationship. Spotty says — he said he's a bit in love with you, and he thinks I am too, and— a-and I think he might be _right_?" Because really, he found he couldn't come to any other conclusion. "A-and I know this is kind of sudden, and I-I don't really know how to do this, I should have asked Davey for advice o-or something, and you don't have to say yes or anything and I don't w-want you to feel pressured or anything, b-because your happiness is the most important and god does that sound fucking cheesy, I just— I can't—"

Fingers tapped rapidly on the backs of his hands, and Race realized he'd been staring down the bed. He looked up.

Albert's freckles stood out starkly against his cheeks, which seemed to have been sapped of color. Whether from shock or fear or— or _something_ — Race didn't know. He pulled his hands back from Race's slowly, apparently trying to steady his breathing, eyes blown wide and flooded with an emotion Race couldn't put a name to. After what felt like minutes upon minutes, his hands finally moved to form words. Just a simple question, but one that made something coil and twist sharply in the pit of Race's stomach.

_"Why me?"_

When he looked up, Albert wasn't meeting his eyes, and the signing continued quickly before he could respond. 

_"I'm not saying I don't believe you, and it's not like I don't like you back, but I just don't understand. I'm not strong like Spot or smart like you, and even though I know you're not lying I just don't understand why someone like Spot or someone like you would want to be something with someone like me. I can't even talk to you like a normal person."_

"Wha— Albie, we're talking right now."

_"Without sign. Why would anyone want someone who can't even talk normally? It's stupid."_

When Race looked up from from Albert's hands, it was to the sight of tears in his friend's eyes and his lower lip trembling. The something in his stomach clenched painfully, and he was leaning forward to wrap his arms around Albert's shoulders as tight as humanly possible before his thoughts had even caught up with his motions. How could he have missed something this big? Why the _fuck—_ how could Albert think that? How could he think that just because of a disability, he couldn't— nobody would—

There were warm tears soaking into the fabric at his shoulder, and that was just the last straw. "It's _not_. It's not goddamn stupid, it's not— Albie, if someone said that to you, I'm going to _fucking murder them_. You're not— _that's not—_ Who _cares_ that you can't talk!" Race was rambling, he knew, and maybe it would have been more effective to lean back before he started his rant so he wouldn't be talking to the back of Albert's head, but his friend was shaking and crying and there was _no goddamn way_ Race was going to let him go, none at all. " _I_ don't, _Spotty_ doesn't, no-one— if they care, then fuck them! You're fucking _fantastic_ , no voice and all, and if anyone says otherwise I'll fucking soak 'em for you. You're—"

His throat clenched, and the words stopped abruptly. It was okay — Race didn't know what he would have said next anyways, didn't know what there was _to_ say. Silence fell over the room, till it seemed like there was nothing but the darkness outside and the multicolored Christmas lights around the window and Albert's face pressed into his shoulder and his arms around his back. That was all, and that was enough.

It took Race a few moments to register that Albert's fingers were tapping against his back, his cue to let go and lean back so his friend could speak. Albert's eyes were reddened, and his cheeks a bit blotchy beneath the freckles, but he seemed to have settled himself somewhat. He scooted forward until their legs were touching (until they were close enough that Race could easily lean in and brush their noses together and _kiss him until they ran out of breath_ ), hands shaking ever so slightly as he signed.

_"I wasn't always mute, you know."_

Race blinked and nodded slowly. "You weren't?"

_"No."_ Shaking his head, Albert seemed to steel himself before continuing. _"I was bullied a lot in high school. It was a very posh school, all-boys, and I was one of the only openly gay kids there. I liked theatre and dance, I liked boys, I talked a lot about theatre and dance and boys and dinosaurs — they didn't like that much."_ His hands paused for a moment, as though he wasn't sure what to say. Or how to say it.

Race waited.

_"They— when I was sixteen, a group of them got together and went after me."_ Ignoring Race's sharp inhale, Albert squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. _"They were rich and white and privileged, so they didn't have to worry about consequences. One of them—"_ He paused, grabbing the hem of his shirt and rubbing it across his neck until a mark— a scar— began to come into view (Race hadn't even realized it was there). _"—he splashed me with acid. Just a little, but it hit my throat. It hurt a lot, I'm lucky I can still breath and eat without assistance. And the others—"_

His hands were shaking, and Race immediately moved closer, tangling their legs together and resting his hands on Albert's hips (they couldn't hold hands because Albert needed his to talk, after all). He tried to swallow the urge to demand names and addresses, pushed down the immediate thought of grabbing Spot and Jack and all their friends and finding these boys and hunting them down. (An acid attack, a fucking acid attack. All because he was gay and liked to talk about things he loved! Race was going to fucking murder them. He was going to hunt them down and murder them slowly, how dare they—)

Albert continued speaking, and Race focused back on him (pushing thoughts of _violent revenge_ to the back of his mind). 

_"—the others grabbed me, and they threw me in the river. I was a good swimmer, but I couldn't because of the pain. I was lucky it wasn't a fast river, because one of the teachers found me before I drowned. I was in the hospital for months."_ He paused, as though it would quell the shaking of his fingers. _"Because of the water, some of the acid got in my lungs. The teacher who found me payed for an emergency lung transplant, and surgery on my throat to fix some of the scarring, but they couldn't fix my voice."_

Hands falling still, Albert's eyes fell to the bedspread beneath them, shoulders hunching upward and inward as though to protect himself. As though he thought Race might— might w _hat_ , might think less of him?

"God, Albie, that's—" What could he say? "Albie, that's _horrible_ , I'm—" Race bit down on his tongue before he could spout off what would probably just sound like a meaningless platitude, forcing himself to think over his words before he let them free. "—look, that's awful, right? And you didn't fucking deserve it, not in the least. And— Albie, look at me?" Brown eyes (golden, chocolate-and-caramel,  _beautiful_ ) lifted up to meet his, and Race raised his hands to caress his friend's cheeks. "Listen, you can't speak? I don't care. You've got scars? _I don't care._ You're fucking _beautiful_ , and _brilliant_ , and _talented_ , and the _best fucking friend_ I could have ever asked for. And I'm—" His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed, because there were tears trickling over his fingers and a flush dusting Albert's cheeks and suddenly (or perhaps it only _felt_ sudden, perhaps he'd known all along) Race couldn't stop himself. "—I'm going to kiss you now, so if you don't want me to—"

The answer to his unasked question (well, properly asked, but not precisely in question form) made itself present as Albert reached forward and pulled Race towards him, fingers tangling in his curls as their lips pressed together almost desperately (like he'd been waiting and waiting for this moment, and maybe he had — maybe they _both_ had). The knot that had formed in Race's stomach dissolved, melting into a warmth coiling in his core as Albert's hands migrated down to his chest and then his thighs, fingers tapping a rapid rhythm that felt a bit like _'yes'_ repeated over and over again. He kissed a path from Albert's lips (the taste of apples and honey, like the pastries they'd had earlier that evening) to the tears at the corners of his eyes, before moving down to press his lips to the scar stretched across his friend's ( _boyfriend's_? they'd get to that part eventually) throat, reveling in the halting gasp that it earned him.

He managed to pull back, breathless and doubtlessly a bit disheveled-looking, to grab his phone. "Don't worry, I'm not stopping if you don't want to—" Albert seemed to take this as his cue to let his fingers drift under Race's shirt and press kisses to the hollow of his throat, startling a breathy groan from Race as he tried to type. " _—right_ , okay, I'm just— _uh_ , letting Spotty know you're— _hng_ , ooh— you're in. You are, I mean? _In_?"

The wide smile stretching across Albert's cheeks when he leaned back was answer enough, even before his hands reappeared to sign along.

**Author's Note:**

> So uhhhh I've just been writing this over the past month or so for the heck of it? Also because I really wanted to do some Spralbert stuff. I was trying to write a different one but it just wasn't working for me, so this happened instead. (Also it's like 12:30 a.m. so i'm just gonna leave it as is rn and go add more fun italics and whatnot tomorrow. uh, later today. idk).
> 
> Enjoy~


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